When reading through my poetry notebooks, there are certain patterns and themes that emerge and repeat themselves. Giving up on perfection doesn't mean that I give up on improving myself, but I have to come to terms with the fact that I am finite and cannot do it all. This is a poem that is as true today as the day I wrote it two years ago.
I'm coming to realize...
no person is perfect
or achieves perfection
no marriage is perfect
no school is perfect
no church is perfect
I'll never read all the books I want to read
visit all the places I want to visit
accomplish all the things I want to accomplish
My to-do list will never be done
I am delusional is I think
that once I [fill-in-the-blank], I will have "arrived"
There will always be dishes to wash
laundry to put away
nooks to organize
Can I be content in the middle of the to-do?
Instead of waiting on ______ to make me happy,
what if I can just choose to be happy now?
What if this ache in my soul
is meant to drive me to You?
What if the frustration of never "arriving"
is meant to create a longing for my arrival in heaven?
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